


you got this

by iron_spider_suit



Series: get / got / gotten (Autistic Peter Parker) [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Autistic Peter Parker, Domestic, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Insecure Peter Parker, Kid Peter Parker, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-18 18:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider_suit/pseuds/iron_spider_suit
Summary: Companion piece toi got you.A story about autistic Peter Parker and his difficulties with social communication, from different points of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't begin to express how surprised and amazed and touched I've been by the response to 'i got you' - all the kind words, and knowing the fic resonated with people in different ways... I can only say thank you _so_ much. To everyone who left kudos or commented. Every single comment is so appreciated and means so much, truly.
> 
> I hope you might enjoy this companion piece too. Thanks again.

“Ned’s my friend.”

“Noah can be your friend too. He _wants_ to be—he invited you over, didn’t he?” May points out, keeping her tone mild with some effort. They have had this conversation at least five times since Peter came home with his first ever invitation to a sleepover. She had even sought out Noah’s mom for a chat, to size her up. Diane had been nice—enough to make up for her undisguised, earnest astonishment when May had mentioned it would be Peter’s first sleepover, at eleven years old. 

“Peter… well… he hasn’t had too much luck in the friends department,” May had explained. “Except for Ned, bless him.” Though Ned hasn’t been around for even six months yet, she adores him. He’s polite, delightfully chipper and pleasantly individual. And when he comes over to the apartment he plays _with_ Peter. When he eats dinner with them she’s been able to see that Ned listens to him, pays attention, and adapts for him without a fuss. He makes Peter happy.

But having Ned doesn’t mean Peter can’t make other friends, and a part of her is terrified Ned will move on, and leave Peter alone again. So while all too often she will let Peter have his way, she’s prepared to bring out the big guns for this. 

“Ned will be there,” she reminds him. “How will it feel to miss it and have him tell you about all the fun he had with the other boysafterwards?”

Peter looks up from where he is picking a paper napkin apart, a small furrow between his eyebrows. “I don’t know. I—I want Ned to have fun, but—”

May pulls the napkin from between his fingers. “It probably won’t feel too good, baby.” She presses the fork back into his hand. “You can always call us if you want to come home.”

“I don’t even want to go,” Peter argues, pouting as he stares down at his plate. He’s mashing the battered cod into a mess, and May realises they really shouldn’t have had this conversation over dinner. But she has to go all out now. 

“Peter, please, just try?” she pleads. 

Peter glances up at her, expression contrite. “OK.” 

Over the years May has realised if she wants Peter to do something, all she has to do is ask. No matter what, if she asks, Peter will do his best to do it—because he wants to make her happy, doesn’t want to let her down. It’s a frightening knowledge to have, and May hates abusing this power—but this isn’t for her, it’s for him. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, urging him to eat with a touch to his hand. She clears her throat, pushes the bowl of sprouts toward him. “It’s going to be fun. Trust me.”

She keeps repeating herself down to the last moment, as she drives him to Noah’s house on Saturday. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles—it’s the most he’s said the entire drive, which he spent worrying at the strings of his hoodie while rocking slightly in the back seat. “Trust me,” she repeats.

“I do,” he replies earnestly. “I’m just—”

“Scared?” she supplies softly.

Peter chews at his thumbnail for a long moment. “What if—”

“Nuh uh. No what-ifs, Pete,” she interrupts. “We’re not doing that. You can’t live second guessing yourself, or everyone else.” Her tone gentles when he flinches. “And if anything goes wrong, you can always call me, OK?”

“OK,” he replies, barely above a whisper.

Hands stuck on the wheel, May longs to smooth out the wrinkles of anxiety on his forehead. “Hey,” she says softly. “I love you.”

Peter’s face relaxes minutely into a faint smile. “Love you too, Aunt May.”

The tension makes a quick return when they reach the house. Peter is skittish as they walk up the paved path to the door. And May quickly takes his hand into her own when it starts to drift toward his mouth; doesn’t let go until Diane opens the door. 

“Hi, Peter. Ready for your big night out?” Diane greets him with a cheerful grin. 

Peter’s eyes widen, and he turns to May in alarm. “Are we sleeping outside? I didn’t bring my coat, May.”

May winces, and Diane stares at Peter, obviously bemused. “Um, no, that’s not —”

“You’re going to be inside, sweetie,” May says hastily. “Now give me a kiss and go say hello to the others.” She pulls him into a quick, reassuring hug for good measure. “You’ll be fine, Peter. It’ll be fun.” Expression solemn, Peter nods before hesitantly entering the house. Straightening up from her crouch, she smiles but waves at him to hurry on when he turns around to look at her. 

Diane offers a warm smile when May turns her attention to her again. “We’ll take good care of him, don’t worry.”

May nods, a nervous laugh bubbling out: “He’ll probably forget all about me in about ten minutes,” she jokes, even though she doesn’t really believe it. But that’s the normal thing to happen, isn’t it? 

Diane laughs. “You can bet on that.”

May forces out a chuckle, but lingers. “He’s never spent the night away from home,” she tells Diane unnecessarily. 

“You can call later to check in, if you want. But, May, if you’ll take advice from a mother of three: relax, and enjoy your night off. He’ll be just fine.”

“You’re right. I’m overthinking it.” Even now May sometimes feels like she’s play acting at being a mother. It doesn’t help that there is so much she can’t relate to with the other mothers at Peter’s school, so much that she is on her own to figure out. Things haven’t been the same with Ben since Skip, either. They aren’t quite the united fronted they used to be anymore. 

“Peter was OK, staying?” Ben asks as for the fourth time as they prepare dinner later that night.

“Yes. Well, a bit nervous. You know how he gets,” May answers, like she hasn’t said the same thing three times before. She needs the reassurance too anyway.

Ben nod as he drains the pasta. “It’ll do him good, though. He needs to spend time with boys his age.” Then adds: “And these are kids from his class. We know them.” His voice remains level, but even with his back turned, May can read the sudden shift in thought—the uncertainty that has plagued them since they found out their kid had been suffering like he had, right under their noses. 

“It’s good for him to make more friends,” she agrees. 

Ben sets the pot down back on the stove heavily. “It’s been almost two years since…” 

“You know it’s not just that,” May replies wearily. 

Ben shakes his head, obstinate, as he serves out the pasta. They’ve had this conversation before. 

When he sets the plate down in front of her, she reaches for his hand, and he laces their fingers together. “House feels empty,” he comments.

“It does.”

It’s the first night in six years they have been home alone.

“Good morning.” Diane looks more fresh and awake than May feels even after pulling in at a drive through for a coffee. She hadn’t got much sleep, worried that she wouldn’t hear the phone if Peter called in the middle of the night wanting to go home. 

“How did it go?” she asks warily. 

“As expected: they all had a really good—_loud_—time,” Diane replies with a chuckle. “I don’t think they went to bed till _way_ past midnight, though, so you won’t have any trouble with bedtime tonight. You’re welcome.”

May obliges with a short laugh. “That’s great.” But she can’t help but have her doubts. Peter isn’t very fond of loud. “So he had a good night? Eat OK?”

“No problems at all, May,” Diane insists. “He was having breakfast just now. Let me go get him.”

“Sure, thanks.”

The moment she sees him, May knows something is off. Clutching the straps of his backpack, Peter hurries up to her without a word. 

Diane casts May a knowing look. “Someone’s tired,” she mouths conspiratorially. Then says out loud: “Well, it was really nice to meet you, Peter.”

Peter mumbles something inarticulate, pressed up against May’s side. May pulls a face at Diane, somewhere between a grimace and an apology, continuing their silent conversation. “What do we say, Pete?” She gives the back of his neck a light squeeze, encouraging him to look up. Peter is usually unfailingly polite—sometimes slipping into a formality that can be a little out of place even—and though he tends to forget himself a bit more when tired out, May can tell that’s not the case now. 

Biting his lip, Peter glances up at her before turning to Noah’s mom. “T-thank you for having me, Mrs Robertson.” 

“You’re welcome. See you soon, hm?”

Peter nods, but quickly ducks his head again.

“I’d best get him home,” May stage whispers with another forced, awkward smile. “Thanks again, Diane.”

Diane offers her a tolerant smile, and waits until they clear the garden to go back inside, seeing them off with a small wave.

“Alright. What’s up?” May parks the car two streets down, and twists in her seat to look at Peter, bracing an arm around the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Did something happen last night?” she asks, narrowing down the question at Peter’s blank look. 

He shrugs, head down, arms wrapped around his backpack.

May is all too used to this: times it’s hard to get Peter to stop talking, and times getting anything out of him is like pulling teeth.

“What did you do, sweetie?” She has learnt sometimes it helps to break questions down. “Did you play any games?”

“Yeah. And we watched two movies.” 

“That sounds pretty good.” The statement leads to nothing but a noncommittal shrug. “So what’s wrong with you, hm?”

Peter’s arms tighten around the backpack. “Nothing, Aunt May. I’m OK,” he mumbles, avoiding her eyes.

“Sweetie, I know OK and this isn’t it.” 

She changes tactics when Peter only winces and curls in on himself even further. “Did you have fun?” she tries, and gets another small shrug for an answer. “I’m taking that as a no.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispers quickly.

May holds back a sigh. “You don’t have to apologise for that, Pete.” 

Peter whimpers, and his eyes are glistening when he looks up at her. “I _tried_ to—!”

“I’m sure you did, baby.” May looks at him helplessly. “So, what was it that you didn’t like, honey?”

“I-I don’t—It's just—I couldn’t—And sometimes I didn’t know—” he stammers incoherently, before managing to elaborate, his tone miserable: “We played this card game and I was so bad at it, May. They could all figure out what cards I had, but I couldn’t tell with them, so I kept losing. George thought it was funny, but Ned said it wasn't fun and we should play something else."

Stumbling over his words, he continues uncertainly: “And they kept shouting while they were playing video games. A-and then Rob’s cousin called me a—" 

"What?" May demands, her hackles rising. “What did he call you?”

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before finally shaking his head hard. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. He also said Iron Man is dumb,” he says in an incredulous, indignant tone. 

“Did he now?” May isn’t exactly a fan of Tony Stark herself, and while she understands Peter’s fascination with him, she has never approved of his admiration for the billionaire, but if it’s served to delegitimize whatever insult that boy had thrown at Peter, she’ll take it. 

“Yeah. And he didn’t believe me when I told him the suits aren’t made of iron—They can’t, you know, because of the weight and the metal’s conductivity and—”

Peter’s newfound _intense_ love for chemistry and long established love for Iron Man means he will tell just about everyone they meet about this, if given the chance. But he’s bouncing in his seat and talking again, and May will take a long, rambling talk on the properties of different chemical elements any day over Peter shut down and upset.

With a rueful, tired smile, she starts the car, and gets back on the road. 

”Do you think you might give slumber parties another chance, if Noah asks you over again?" she throws in when Peter gets distracted by the dogs playing in the green as they drive by a park.

He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, before asking, hesitantly: "Do you want me to?"

May knows it’s harder for him when he can’t even see all of her face, and more so when her expressions sometimes reflect the traffic, not the conversation.  "I’m asking whether _you’d_ want to, Pete."

The silence in the car stretches out.

"Do I have to?" he asks at last in a small voice.

“No, of course not. You don’t if you don’t want to."

"Thank you,” Peter breathes in a loud exhalation. 

The relief in his voice hurts. May doesn’t want to force him into anything that makes him uncomfortable, but she's disappointed—worried. 

She turns to look at him as they wait for a red light. It’s hard to believe sometimes that this child has been hers for six years now. Though he’s still small for his age, he’s grown, and his hair has darkened and lost some of its curl—but the doe eyes and the sweet smile haven’t changed one bit. “I love you, baby, you know that, right?”

“I love you too.” Peter’s eyes flit over her face, the tiniest line between his eyebrows, and she knows he’s trying to work out her mood. “It’s OK, Aunt May. It’s more fun to play alone, really. Or with Ned,” he tells her, obviously looking to reassure her.

May summons a small, rueful smile, but changes the subject. “Did you finish breakfast?” she asks. “Did they have the cereal you like?”

Peter shakes his head. “But I had some toast. And milk.”

"That’s good. Are you still hungry?” She checks the time on the dashboard. "You want to stop for something, or wait for lunch?"

“Mm. Is Uncle Ben cooking?" he asks, deadpan, but unable to contain his playful grin.

"He is. Not that it should matter!" She makes a half hearted attempt to swat back at him playfully, making him burst into giggles. 

"I can wait till lunch then.”

She clucks her tongue dramatically, then chuckles. “OK. Let’s get home, then.”

May keeps an eye on him through the rear view mirror as she drives, the radio on low. Peter is silent again, but relaxed as he looks out the window, one knee bouncing with the music, as he plays with the zipper of his backpack, zipping up and down, up and down. 

It makes her think about the site she had bookmarked months ago, of an online store that sold stim toys. She had put several item in the cart, but could never make up her mind to buy any. Ben wouldn’t approve, for one—no matter how she tried there was no disassociating the autism from the abuse, for Ben. And May… she wanted _normal_ for Peter, and she wasn’t sure how indulging the _stimming_, as the therapist had called it, fit into that. All she had ever wanted for Peter was _normal_. Normal was safe—and good. _Normalcy after trauma_, the therapist had recommended. Then sprung up on them that Peter was autistic. 

May had been simultaneously relieved—it wasn’t her screwing up, things were just different for Peter—and guilt, because she had known something was different, and she should have done something about it, and she was probably screwing up anyway. Ultimately, all it had done was confuse her even more, because she didn’t know how to change, how much to adapt without letting what had happened to Peter… change everything. She didn’t know what normal they were supposed to be aiming for anymore.

“May…” Peter pipes up, drawing her from her thoughts. “You’re not singing.”

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“It’s your song,” Peter answers for an explanation.

May’s breath comes out in a surprised laugh as she realises the song that’s playing on the radio. May has sung along to this song, ridiculous and off key, since she was in her twenties. Then Peter came along and the first real smile she got, weeks after they brought him home, had been at May’s antics in front of the CD player. 

One day a few weeks later he had started shaking his head to the music and mouthing the words along with her, and over time it had become a thing for them. It’s their song now, really. And May loves that. 

“You can’t pretend not to like my singing anymore, after this,” she warns him, teasing, and feels the knot in her stomach loosen when Peter giggles again even as he groans in protest. 

Life has thrown them a few curveballs, but their little family is settling in again, little by little, and May has to believe things are only bound to get easier. 

She turns the volume up a little, and starts singing.


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s something I need to show you.” 

Ned isn’t surprised by the slight wariness in Peter’s expression—he knows he’s breaking the unspoken rule of their routine during sleepovers—but Peter is his best friend and Ned _needs_ to tell him about this. 

He tosses him his old Snorlax plushie—which Peter will never ask for but Ned knows he loves—and scrambles to reach under his mattress, where it’s hidden. 

Snorlax tucked under his elbow, tracing the embroidered lines of the eyes in a repetive motion, Peter sits cross legged on his sleeping bag, and squints at Ned doubtfully.

“OK, you can’t tell _anyone_ about this, Peter. I swear.” Ned walks on his knees over to Peter. “No one. Not even May.”

Peter’s eyes widen in alarm. “Ned, are you in trouble?”

“No, no!” Ned grabs Peter’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “But this could _get_ me in trouble.” 

Peter makes a face, eyebrows furrowed and mouth twisted to a side. “What is it?” 

Pulling the black case out of the plastic bag, Ned holds it to his chest for a moment. “You’ll _never_ guess what this is.” 

Eyes fixed on the black case, Peter shakes his head jerkily. 

The plastic makes a loud clicking noise when Ned opens it to reveal the CD inside. “This, young Padawan, is the beta version of the new Pantheon Warriors 3,” he explains, gleeful. “You know my brother’s working in video game development, and he’s not supposed to, but he said we could try it out! I know you’ve said you don’t like video games, but you _have_ to try this one out, seriously, Peter.”

In his excitement, he’s slow to realise that Peter has gone completely, unusually, still. Then, to his utter confusion, Peter hunches over around the Snorlax clutched to his chest, breathing fast.

“Peter, what—?” Ned looks around frantically, at a loss for what’s caused this reaction. It’s not the first time Ned’s brought out some video game to talk about—even if Peter has turned down playing every time Ned’s suggested it. “Peter, what’s wrong?” 

He places a careful hand on his back—Peter usually reacts well to touch—but a distressed noise rises from his throat this time, and the next second he is on his feet and running to the bathroom. 

Ned abandons the game without a thought, case still open, and follows down the hall. Standing outside the door, he hears Peter retching. 

“Shit.” Ned leans against the door. He has no clue what’s gone wrong. Peter sometimes gets a little anxious, but it had never been like this before. “Peter, is it the new fabric softener?” he blurts out.

“No, Ned,” Peter calls out from behind the door. 

Ned’s relief at the wet chuckle is short lived, when silence follows and continues. “Peter. Peter. Peter.” He raps his knuckles softly against the door. 

He’s a minute away from going to wake his mom when Peter opens the door, his face white and oddly blank. 

The first thing he does is apologise, as usual. “Sorry—”

Ned shakes his head. “What is it? Are you OK? Come lie down.”

Peter hesitates, wrapping his arms around himself, gaze fixed somewhere over Ned’s shoulder. “Can we… can we sit in the living room for a bit?” 

“Uh, yeah, of course.” It’s late, but there’s enough light from the street lamps outside coming in through the windows they don’t need to turn on the lights. His parents are in their bedroom, down the hall, and Ned almost wishes for a moment to see light under the door, but it’s dark and the door remains closed as they tip toe past and downstairs to the living room. 

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, once Peter’s settled on the couch, hugging a cushion to his chest.

When Ned returns with the glass, he takes it mechanically, only to set it down on the coffee table and sit back again, eyes far away. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Ned takes a seat next to him. Their knees bump, but Peter doesn’t move away. 

“You need a hug?” Ned asks after a moment. He doesn’t know what else to do. He isn’t used to feeling so lost with Peter. 

Ned’s got a pretty good hang on his best friend by now, he thinks. Just that night he had known to remind his mom Peter doesn’t like the corn with the peppers; and he had quickly caught Peter’s widening eyes and explained his mother was joking when she said she was going to start charging everyone—meaning Ned’s brothers—who came to eat. Ned _knows_ Peter. But this… this he doesn’t know.

Peter glances at him, though it still takes what feels like an age before he nods. With a rush of relief, Ned pulls him into a tight hug—he can feel Peter shaking. 

“Peter, why did you throw up?” he whispers at last, pulling back to look at him, his tone gentle but firm.

Peter twists his fingers in his lap. “T-the case, it just—it reminded me of… something…” His voice is so low Ned can only hear him because the house is so silent. 

“Something that… happened to you?”

“Mhm.” 

“Something bad?” Ned insists, though he knows _this_ answer. His heart is pounding, and he feels a bit sick. 

Peter looks at him—really looks at him, finally—and nods wordlessly. 

Ned stares for a long moment, unsure what to do. This too is part of Peter being Peter, somehow, he knows—in a different way.  It’s scary, if Ned is being honest. But Peter is his best friend, and Ned is meant to be there for him. He wants to be there for him. 

“Can you… will you tell me about it?” he asks, reaching for Peter's hands to stop their nervous wringing. To his surprise, Peter immediately tears them out of Ned’s grasp and tucks them under his armpits.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter says frantically. 

Though he needs more time to figure out why, it sets off alarms in Ned's head when Peter mumbles something about Ned not wanting to touch him, rather than not wanting Ned to touch him. And, for once, Ned is speechless. He’s never seen Peter quite like this. “Peter.”

Peter takes in a deep, shuddering breath, then, without warning, starts talking: “I was eight…” 

It’s past two in the morning by the time they go back to his room. Ned pulls down a pillow and his duvet from the bed and lays down next to Peter on the floor. Their hands find each other after a while, and Ned holds on tight, even though Peter’s hand is clammy.

Despite everything, he drifts into a fitful asleep. He startles awake at least four times too—which is how he knows Peter doesn’t sleep at all. Although it’s obvious the next morning as well, when he sits up straight the moment Ned opens his eyes. 

His mom frets the moment she catches sight of Peter, attributing his pallor and jumpiness to an upset stomach, and Peter says sorry and thank you too many times over breakfast, which he doesn’t really eat. 

Later, as he readies to leave, Ned asks if he can hug him. He’s never asked before, but it feels right this morning—both asking for permission, and requesting the hug. 

Peter sniffles into his shoulder as Ned holds him, but doesn’t hug him back, hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie. It just makes Ned hold him closer, until he has to let go because May is waiting downstairs, double parked. 

Once Peter has left, Ned pretends he has a bit of an upset stomach too—even though it will mean missing out on the lau lau leftovers that night—in order to hide out in his room to think. 

He sprawls on the duvet on the floor, staring at the ceiling, balancing Snorlax on his stomach. He isn’t sure what to do with the knowledge that his best friend had been sexually abused only a few years before. It’s shocked him to his core. Ned is thirteen, he knows those things happen. He’s read it on the news, even seen it in a few daytime movies his mom likes to watch on Sunday afternoons. But it’s hard to wrap his head around the knowledge that it had happened to _Peter_. 

It takes him a long while to realise he’s furious. He’s so, _so_ angry someone—_Skip_—did that to Peter. Took advantage of him like that, hurt him like that. And called themselves his friend all the while, to boot! Ned pummels a pillow, then buries his hot face in it, fighting back tears.

When his brother calls in the evening, he opens the conversation with an amused: “So, how far along are you? Managed to beat the villain in level 10 yet?” 

And for a few seconds Ned genuinely has no idea what he’s talking about. “Huh? Oh! Oh. No, I… I haven’t played yet.”

“Really? Ned, are you _OK_?” he asks teasingly.

“Yeah. It’s just—” Ned hesitates. “Peter got sick last night. Some kind of stomach bug, or something,” he adds.

His brother chuckles. “Ned, you worrywart. You know Peter catches bugs easily. He’ll be fine.”

Ned swallow thickly. “You think?” he asks, his voice wobbling.

“Yeah, Ned…” There is confusion in his brother’s tone. “Of course he’s going to be fine.”

Ned knuckles at his stinging eyes before giving a sharp nod, bracing himself. “So level 10 is the hardest one?” 

Later that night, his mom sits down by his hip and presses a hand to his forehead. Normally Ned would put up a token protest that he’s too old to be tucked in—even though he actually doesn’t mind—but tonight he has something else on his mind. 

“You’ve been so quiet today. Are you still feeling sick?” she asks. 

Ned shakes his head. “Mom…” he says uncertainly. He really wants to talk to an _adult_ about Peter, but he also worries he’s betraying Peter’s trust if he says anything. “Mom, if… if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?”

His mom frowns a little. “That depends, Ned. I won’t gossip, if that’s what you’re asking. But if someone is in trouble, I’ll need to tell.”

Ned chews on his bottom lip. “Last night Peter… told me about something that happened to him. Someone… someone hurt him, mom.” He feels tears spring to his eyes.

“What? When was this, Ned?”

“It was years ago, mom. One summer, when he was little.”

His mother studies his face for a long moment, and what she can read on his face must be enough, because her face crumples in dismay. “Oh God. That poor boy.” After a moment, she smooths Ned’s hair from his forehead. “I’m so sorry that happened to your friend, anak,” she says softly.

Ned bites his lip, then blurts out: “I don’t know what to do, mom.”

Immediately, she gathers him into her arms. “Ned, you can’t do anything but be his friend, just like you have been these last few years. You’re a good friend, darling. Peter’s lucky to have you.”

Face buried against her bosom, Ned makes a noise of disagreement, but he desperately hopes it’s true. “Mom, is he going to be OK?” he asks quietly, after a minute. 

It’s the question that he keeps coming back to—he needs to know Peter is going to be OK. 

His mother remains silent for long enough Ned’s throat tightens with the threat of tears again. “You know how Oscar broke his hip when he was little, and his leg grew a bit shorter than the other, and he needed a little help to walk, and even now that he’s grown up it still hurts sometimes?”

Ned nods. He was only five, but he remembers visiting his brother at the hospital for months after the accident.

“I think it’ll be a little like that with Peter, Ned.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you understand?”

It takes Ned longer than usual to go to sleep, thinking about Peter and what his mom had said. Peter had been hurting last night, but painkillers and ice packs wouldn’t help in his case.

All Ned can do is be the best best friend he can be, like he has these last years. 

He grabs his phone and writes out a message with trembling fingers: _Hey, man. I love you._ Even though it’s late, past both their bedtimes, he isn’t that surprised when the read tick appears almost instantly.

It’s a few minutes before the answer comes through: a gif of Han Solo saying ‘I know’. 

Ned bursts out laughing. 

They text for a little while, talking about nothing, and when he finally puts down the phone, he can only hope Peter feels that little bit lighter too. 


	3. Chapter 3

He should have known the moment he woke up—but then it was always worse in the morning, he had noticed, before it settled enough that he could get through the day. Usually. 

While Peter had always been sensitive, especially to sound, since the spider bite his senses have been out of control, to the point of finding himself literally unable to function. May had already had to pick him up from school four times in the last two weeks. 

The sensory overload only gets worse on the bus. And by the time he gets down to the train platform, he fees like he’s trapped in a wind tunnel, pungent with all the smells of the morning commute crowd. 

The metal screams as the train arrives at the platform. And the stampede of people boarding and leaving the train makes his head pound until he can’t take it anymore. Covering his ears with his hands, he slides down the wall, swallowing saliva as his stomach roils. The fluorescent lights burn bright even through his closed eyelids.

It seems to go on for so long Peter isn’t sure if one train or five have come and gone by the time two security guards approach him.

“Hey.”

“Are you lost? Where are your parents?” 

“You need to get up. You’re in the way.”

“It’s not safe. Can you hear me?”

“Kid? Hello!?”

The loud noise as fingers are snapped in front of his face makes him flinch. Peter opens watering eyes to squint at the pair towering over him: a man and a woman in uniform with—too bright—reflective vests. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. Drugs?”

“Miguel, he’s, like, twelve.”

Miguel shrugs, but the woman shakes her head, studying Peter with a small frown. “I think he’s just, you know… Reminds me of one of my cousin’s kids.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut tight again, trying to block out the conversation. He wishes Uncle Ben was with him—he always knows what to say to people, whereas Peter gets tongue tied all too often. And right now he can’t say anything at all. The words won’t form, just won’t take shape in his mouth. All he wants is for everything to just stop. For someone to turn off the lights and the noise and the smell.

They eventually haul him to his feet, ignoring his whimpered protest—the fingers clasped around his upper arm feel like vices, and even the slight tug of his clothes hurts—and take him to one of their break rooms.  It’s the tiniest bit quieter there, one floor up from the platform; and someone is thoughtful enough to turn off some of the lights in the room, so that Peter can sit in something almost like gloom.

Everything is still too much, but he can breathe again at least. Although the relentless staring from the pair of guards and their too loud whispers about him make him want to curl up and disappear.

After a couple of minutes, the woman gets to her feet, stretching. “Well, I’d best get out there. See if you can find someone to collect him, if not we’ll have to… call the police, or something.”

Miguel lets out a long groan. “I don’t want to deal with that.”

She leaves with a smirk and a wave. “You know what to do, then!” 

The man stares at Peter contemplatively from across the room. “You got anyone who can come and get you?” he asks as he wanders over.

When he bends down to grab the backpack at Peter’s feet, Peter instinctively snatches it away from his grasp—using too much force, he realises immediately. 

Miguel holds his hands up, scowling. “Whoa. Easy, pal. Just looking for your phone, or some form of ID. You can’t stay here forever, you know. And you can’t go off on your own, clearly.” 

Face burning, Peter zips open his backpack with shaking hands. “I c-can call m-my uncle.”

“Oh! He speaks!” Miguel jeers, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. “Do that, then. Go on.”

The phone rings four times, and Peter is close to panicking before Ben picks up. “Hey, champ, what’s up? Everything OK?” he asks, voice rough from sleep. 

Peter swallows repeatedly, the words getting stuck in his throat.

“Pete?” Ben says, sounding more awake.

“U-uncle Ben, I—Sorry—Can you… can you come get me, p-please?”

“Peter, what happened? Where are you?”

He recoils at the hand suddenly thrust in front of him. “I’ll talk to him. What’s his name? Ben?” 

Mortified, Peter nods, and reluctantly hands the phone over. 

The man turns his back to Peter and lowers his voice. Peter can still hear him, though: _dunno, he was freaking out… how old is he anyway… yeah, he's calmed down a bit… Half an hour? Fine. Bye. _

“Your uncle’s coming,” he tells Peter shortly, handing him back the phone.

Peter stuffs the phone in the front pocket of his hoodie and pulls the hood lower over his head as he draws his feet up onto the chair. He can’t help but rock a little in his seat as he waits, though it makes the guard stare. Twisting the laces of his sneakers around his fingers, tight enough to cut off the circulation, he keeps himself grounded—distracted. 

It only takes Ben twenty minutes to come get him, greying hair a windswept mess and his shirt on inside out. “Peter, what happened?” he asks breathlessly, pulling Peter to his feet and into a bear hug.

“Ben, I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t—” Shushing him, Ben grabs him by the shoulders and inspects him carefully. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Peter can’t hold back a sob, even as he shakes his head. His chest aches when he hears the security guard scoff under his breath at a _fourteen year old kid snivelling like a baby_.

“Come on, kiddo, let’s get you home.” Ben slings Peter’s backpack over his shoulder, and gives him a light push toward the door.

His back very straight, he stops in front of the guard. “He’s just a boy,” Ben tells him quietly. “He wasn’t causing any trouble, either. He’s just a boy who needed some help. You think it makes you a man to laugh at that?”

The guard averts his eyes for second, mouth twisted to the side. But as soon as Ben has turned his back, calls: “You’d best keep an eye on your _boy,_ if he can’t handle the subway on his own.”

Shaking his head, Ben throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and leads him out.

The trip up to the street level makes the nausea return in full force, and Peter collapses into the passenger seat the moment Ben opens the car.

The bright sunlight isn’t much better for his head than the fluorescent lighting in the subway, and there’s no way to avoid it as they drive home. Ben has a habit of drumming his fingers on the wheel while he drives, as well, and in a matter of minutes Peter is on the verge of breaking down again. 

“Ben, please—” Peter whimpers finally. 

A whine rising in his throat, he bends over, his head between his knees, gripping his hair. 

“Oh Pete.” He hears his uncle breathe out. “That's how many times in, what, two weeks? What’s going on with you, kiddo?” he wonders aloud, his voice gentle and concerned. 

It makes Peter want to cry. He wants to tell his uncle about the spider bite, wants to tell him about how his senses are off the charts sensitive, and that he’s terrified—is it always going to be like this: too loud, too bright, every smell too strong, and touch borderline painful?

He really, really wants his uncle to tell him it’s going to be OK.

“Come on, Pete, almost there.” 

Ben’s soft encouragement gets him up the stairs to the apartment and to his room, where he changes into something more comfortable in a daze while Ben fetches him some water and a wet towel to drape over his eyes.

Once Peter is settled—on his side, hugging a pillow—Ben rolls the desk chair over to sit down next to the bed. He rests a hand on Peter’s head, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. 

His head feels tender to the touch, but Peter is craving comfort, and he will take it even with the pain. With his eyes closed and the blinds down, some of the painful pounding in his head soon recedes anyway.

“Cold?” Ben asks when Peter shivers, and pulls the duvet up to his chin without waiting for an answer. “Peter… Is something going on?” he continues after a moment, his voice as quiet as he can make it. “You know you can talk to me, kid. _Please,_ if something is wrong, this time I need you to tell me, Pete. I promise we won’t be mad.” 

Peter makes a sad, inarticulate noise. “No, I… I just—I’m sorry, Uncle Ben.” His throat growing too tight to continue, even if he knew what to answer, he buries his face into the pillow with a whine. 

Ben sighs, gives the back of his neck a light squeeze. “It’s OK, Pete. This… kind of thing happens sometimes. It’s just how it is for you. I need to remember that sometimes, I know.”

Peter’s eyes burn as a few tears escape from behind his closed eyelids. It’s rare for Ben to acknowledge his autism outright. He knows Ben doesn’t like to think of Peter as autistic, and he can’t begin to imagine what he would think of him if he found out he is now genetically mutated too. That this isn’t normal even for him. 

It makes his stomach hurt thinking of how he keeps making everything more difficult for his aunt and uncle. But Peter just doesn’t know how to _stop. screwing. up. _

It startles him when the bed dips, and Ben moves to lie down next to him, kicking off his shoes, each one falling on the floor with a too loud thump. The next moment his uncle is wrapping an arm around him.

“OK?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah.” Peter chokes up a little. “Thank you.”

Peter can’t remember what his parents did when he got overwhelmed when he was little, but he has memories of his aunt and uncle tucking him into bed and holding him until it passed, from when he first moved in with them. 

Nowadays, however, whenever Peter gets overwhelmed for whatever reason he just crawls under the covers and waits it out alone—unless May figures him out first. But Ben hasn’t done this for him in years. For months after Skip, Peter didn’t _want_ him to do it—he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t help the repulsion, the shame, the _fear_—and by the time he had been comfortable enough again, Ben didn’t offer and Peter couldn’t bring himself to ask anymore.

He still remembers, though, when Ben would smooth down his hair and murmur reassuringly until Peter felt better.

Peter holds onto that now as he draws in a stuttering breath, and blurts out: “Uncle Ben, that was… that was scary.” 

This _is_ scary. All of it—his enhanced senses, and super strength, and stickiness—and he doesn’t even know if this is the full extent of his powers—it’s all amazing, but also absolutely terrifying. And Peter is alone with all of it. He’s scared.

Ben goes still for a moment—Peter hears the minute pause in his breath—before tightening his arms around him. “It’s going to be OK, Pete.” He hums thoughtfully. “May and I will figure something out so one of us can drive you to school, alright? At least for a few days.” 

Peter wants to say no, that he can handle it and it’s not necessary. But he feels raw like an exposed nerve, and he doesn’t know this same thing might not happen again tomorrow when he tries to take the subway to school.

A fresh sob gets caught in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Ben shushes him. “It’s OK, don’t cry, son. You’re OK.” 

Peter raises a hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to try to smother his cries—at his uncle’s words and soft voice, and at the fact that he feels so far from OK: he can hear the buzz of the refrigerator like it's in his ears, and the water in the pipes in the whole building, and the traffic outside for what feels like miles.

“Peter, listen to me.” Ben holds him as close as he can, even finds his hand, pulling it away from his mouth and gripping it tight. “It’s going to be OK. You hear me? It’s going to be OK.”

There’s a rush of relief at the words he had so longed to hear, but Peter isn’t a little kid anymore, and he knows his uncle saying it doesn’t mean it’s true. He wants so much to believe him, though. He tries _so_ hard to believe him. 


	4. Chapter 4

Happy is used to weird. Genius weird, superhero weird, plain weird—God knows Tony’s a handful, Iron Man and stratospheric IQ aside. But Peter has a different sort of weird in addition to those too. Happy decides it must be teenager weird. The kid is a kid, he determines, and leaves it at that. 

He starts paying more attention after the fiasco with Toomes—restrategizing. After all, Happy’s assignment hadn’t been just the move, but Peter too… and he’d screwed up with both. However, although he gets to see a lot more of the kid what with Tony having him over with increasing frequency, the weird doesn’t really get any less weird, even if it becomes familiar. 

Happy can work with that, though. He doesn’t need to put a name to it, he just needs to know what to do with it. 

He learns to air out the car while he waits for the kid to get out of school, and starts keeping chocolate milk and an assortment of nuts—Tony foots the cleaning bill—for the trip to the compound. But weeks later, there’s still an issue with communication. They seem to be speaking different languages half the time. 

The kid’s an open book for anyone to read—so that’s far from the issue—it’s that he sometimes reacts in ways that make zero sense to Happy. There’s panic and frantic apologising after Happy grumbles he’s missing dinner one night, as though he were missing the birth of his first child instead of a microwaved burrito. Or blank silence at a joke that had made even Pepper laugh when he had told it to her. 

And he doesn’t understand how the kid, with his genius IQ, doesn’t just _get_ things that should be obvious. Like that if Happy comments that he has no clue about reverse bioengineering, it’s not an invitation for a three hour enthusiastic lecture on it. That a sarcastic ‘take your time’ at the drive through was not supposed to inspire a sigh of relief and an earnest thank you. He shouldn’t have to explain everything, in detail, to a fifteen year old genius, should he? 

The learning curve for Peter when it comes to this seems awfully slow too. Happy can’t wrap his head around it.

In the end, he learns his lesson the hard way, once again, like he had with the incident with the plane. Only a little less disastrous.

“Tony’s going to be a nightmare when he sees you like this,” Happy informs Peter as they leave the school behind. He hadn’t been counting on delivering a sick kid to Tony, who was bound to be unbearable: mother hen, through and through. 

“He will?” 

Happy catches a glimpse of Peter’s anxious face in the rear view mirror, and rolls his eyes. “Thought you couldn't get sick anyway.”

“No, no, I can,” Peter replies dejectedly. 

“Sucks to be you,” Happy grunts amiably. 

Peter doesn’t laugh—no surprises there. Happy needs to find a more appreciative audience before he gets a complex. He keeps an eye on the kid while he drives, but it still seems to come out of nowhere when he glances back around an hour later and sees him tight lipped and white as a sheet. 

“Kid, you’re looking peaky.” 

“Mm.”

“Gonna throw up?” Happy demands.

“I’m trying really, really hard not to?” Peter replies in a small, quavering voice.

“Ugh.” That sounds like a ‘yes’ in Happy’s book. He quickly changes lanes, grimacing at the displeased moan from the backseat, and two minutes later comes a stop in front of a service station. “Alright, get out.”

“What?” Peter’s voice comes high pitched with alarm. 

“I’m not driving for three hours after you’ve blown chunks in the back,” he says impatiently as he looks around for a suitable parking spot. “Go on.” The kid looks positively green around the gills now, and Happy knows from experience no amount of air fresheners will clear up the smell of vomit from a car. 

“Um. OK. Sorry. I… I’ll just—” Peter stutters, reaching for the door. “Go then?”

“Toilets are round the back,” Happy tells him distractedly, focused on the dumbass driver who is now blocking him. “Come on, kid.” The obnoxious beeping that signals an unfastened seat belt is not helping his mood. “I need to deal with this.” He swears as the car comes close to backing into them. Happy blasts his horn without remorse, and doesn’t hear the door closing behind Peter. 

In the end, he is forced to go around and drive up the road for five minutes before he can turn back and find a place to park. Scowling and sweating in his suit, Happy stomps out of the car to the gas station store, where he purchases a soda for himself and a ginger ale for the kid, before heading to the toilets.

When he opens the bathroom, it’s empty. 

“Kid?”

Happy checks every stall, and even taps at the air vent grate, just in case, but it’s screwed closed. He stands outside and scans the area, ignoring the honking cars around him when he walks around to find a vantage point where he can check the top of the building and the forecourt’s canopy. The kid is nowhere to be found. “What the hell.”

After he drives up and down the road for five minutes, without sight or sign of him, he’s forced to call Tony. 

“I can’t find the kid,” Happy says bluntly, without preamble. 

“What?”

“The kid. I don’t know where he is,” he admits, shame and concern creeping into his voice. 

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is, you were supposed to pick him up two hours ago.”

Tony’s reaction is worse than Happy had feared: he remains eerily calm while Happy relates the sequence of events up until he had lost the kid. 

“You told him to get out, just like that?” he asks when Happy has finished, his face unreadable.

“Well, yeah. I didn’t want him throwing up in the car. And I know that service station, they keep their bathrooms pretty clean,” he adds defensively. 

Tony scrubs a hand down his face, then holds it up to his cheek as he looks at Happy. “You gave him no time frame, no direction?”

Happy makes a frustrated noise. “I was a little preoccupied! And it was obvious, come on.”

Half and hour later, Happy collects Tony and the kid—fifteen miles down the road at another service station. 

The back of his shirt is damp with sweat despite blasting the AC, and he’s blaming the soda for the heartburn.

“Happy, fancy meeting you here,” Tony quips as he opens the door, ushering the kid inside.

“Hey, kid,” Happy greets Peter, ignoring Tony. 

“Hey, Happy.” 

Happy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel—the kid still looks pale, and tearful now on top of ill. It’s not the first time he’s heard Peter sniffling in the back seat—the kid seems to cry at the drop of a hat—but as far as he knows it’s the first time he’s been the one to make him cry. He doesn’t like it. 

Happy stares as Tony wraps an arm around the kid as he settles in next to him, easy as anything. 

“Pedal to the metal, Hap. But easy, kid’s still a bit nauseous,” he tags on. “And turn down the AC, will you? You have your own microclimate going on here, Jesus.” 

Considering Happy has known Tony to crank up the AC until condensation builds on glass, he guesses it has to do with the kid, who he notices is actually shivering in his flannel shirt.

“I’m alright,” Peter protests weakly—even less convincingly than earlier. Happy reaches for the ginger ale bottle he’d tossed on the passenger seat, and passes it back. “Here, this is supposed to help.”

“Oh, thanks, Happy.” For some reason Peter sounds even more miserable, and Happy releases his breath through his nose in frustration—he’s going to need instructions on how to fix this. 

He can hear Tony whispering to the kid for a while after, but even though he strains his ears with no shame whatsoever, he can’t quite make out much—_ not your fault… he’s not mad, I promise… me neither, no_—and he needs more context to fill in the blanks.

Happy glances back at a quiet whimper and somehow it doesn’t shock him all that much to see Peter tucked into Tony’s side with his face buried against his chest. 

Tony catches his eye in the rear view mirror, but they both stay silent.

Overall, it’s a confusing trip back—unusually quiet. Happy catches himself almost wanting to make conversation. 

“Happy, I’m.. I’m _really_ sorry—You had to drive around looking for me, and you must be on overtime by now, and missing your show—” Peter blurts out when they reach the compound. Tugging at his sleeves in a nervous gesture, he won’t meet his eyes. And he runs off before Happy can even think of an answer to that—because, what? He might not be entirely clear on what happened, but he’s pretty sure if anyone should be apologising it’s him. 

“Are you going to explain what the hell happened?” Happy demands of Tony, who has lingered only to grab the kid’s backpack.

“Once the kid’s settled in,” Tony says calmly—infuriatingly. “He’s running a bit of a fever.” And with that he’s gone.

Happy stares after him. 

Tony had been over the top protective pretty much from the word go, and Happy hadn’t missed his growing affection for the kid, but he hadn’t realised it had got this point so fast. He doesn’t think Tony has tried to fight it at all, and that might be the most surprising part. 

Deciding to wait for Tony, he makes himself a sandwich and makes himself comfortable in the living room. He has time to eat dessert and watch the end of his show before Tony finally makes his way down.

“Still here?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, as he steps into the kitchen. 

Happy gives him an unimpressed look. “What was _that?_”

“What was what?”

Happy narrows his eyes in a glower. “All of this. This whole thing with the kid.” It’s a conversation they should have had a lot sooner. 

Tony stares at him for a moment, and Happy _knows_ he knows what he means. But it’s Tony, and he never makes anything easy for anyone—except Peter, it seems, and Pepper, depending on the situation.

“A misunderstanding,” Tony answers with a shrug, as he starts rummaging in the cupboard for a mug at the back, instead of just grabbing one closer to him, Happy notes with exasperation. 

“Can you just tell me what the hell’s going on, Tony? Damn it.”

Tony settles back on his heels with a sigh, mug in hand. “The kid thought you weren’t going to drive him here, and I wouldn’t want to see him cause he’s sick, so he latched onto the back of a caravan to get back to Queens.” 

“Where did he get _that_ from?” Happy asks in bewilderment. 

Tony gives him a long, slow blink. “You.”

“Me!?”

“Hap, I thought you’d have realised by now you’ve got to be straight with the kid,” Tony says, clucking his tongue as he turns on the kettle. “Crystal clear.” 

Frowning, Happy thinks back on what he’d said to Peter that afternoon. “That would have been more than clear to most people.” 

“Peter’s not most people,” Tony says simply. 

“Kid’s not an idiot, so what’s wrong with him?” Happy asks, getting to his feet. He’s missing something, and he doesn’t like it. 

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with him,” Tony snaps irritably.

Happy shakes his head, walking over to the kitchen. “I didn’t mean it like that, Christ, Tony. Just… tell me what I need to know so I can do my job right.” He heaves a sigh. “I don’t want to make the kid cry again,” he mumbles. 

Tony takes his time pouring the water in the mug. “This stays between us, you hear.”

“No shit.” Happy can be discreet, he’s a professional, damn it. And Tony is his friend, even if he didn’t care about Peter too. 

Tony lets out a small laugh, but his tone is serious when he answers. “I think he might be on the spectrum.”

“What spectrum?”

Tony facepalms dramatically, and it comes to Happy, what he means. “Oh. That spectrum.” Thinking back, he doesn’t know how it hadn’t even occurred to him with Peter, but— “Yeah, that fits.”

Busy spooning honey into the mug, Tony shrugs. 

Happy grimaces. “Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?” He’d been really, stupidly oblivious.

“I pay you to beat other people up, not yourself.” Tony’s lips twitch, and Happy knows he’s forgiven, at least. “Just… keep it in mind, from now on. Don’t leave my kid abandoned in a gas station again.”

“I think I can manage that,” he replies with a snort of laughter.

“Well, I have set the bar pretty low.” 

“Haha.” Happy takes his plate over the sink. “Kid feeling better?”

“Mm. Hopefully this will help.” It’s only then Happy registers what Tony had been doing: preparing Peter tea, for his upset stomach. In an especially chosen mug that has some yellow cartoon animal on it. He really doesn’t know how he missed this. 

“He’s a good kid.”

Tony smiles, and it’s a soft, genuine thing. “Yeah.”

“You’re good with the kid.” Happy knows he’s pushing it, but he thinks Tony needs to hear it. “Good for him.”

He expects Tony to give him an unamused look, maybe a glare, or a sardonic laugh.

“I’m trying,” he says instead. And while the tone is a little flippant, his eyes give him away. There’s a vulnerability in his face, that Happy, who has known him for decades, hasn’t seen all that often: Tony is dead serious—and he’s scared.

“You’re doing good, Tony,” Happy tells him honestly. 

Tony waves a hand at Happy impatiently. “And you’re distracting me. The tea’s getting cold,” he says, hurrying toward the elevator. 

He’s running away, and they are both more than aware of it. But they’ve said all they had to say, really, and Happy’s more than happy to let him. He has to get to his kid, anyway. 


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re inviting me to a pool party, with the team?” Peter repeats dubiously, rocking a little on his stool.

“That’s what I said, keep up, spiderling.” Out of nowhere, Tony deposits a dino squishimal on the island countertop in front of him as he walks over to the fridge.

“I’d tell you to invite your friend Fred—”

“Ned,” Peter corrects automatically, taking the stim toy. He wonders if Mr Stark just carries them around in his pocket, or has a drawer full in every room. Peter still feels hesitant picking them up himself without prompting, even though they do help him focus, or relax.

“—but I’m not sure he won’t spontaneously combust at the sight of Nat in a swimsuit.”

Peter chuckles, feeling out the ridges along the dinosaur’s spine. Then he remembers with a mixture of giddiness and trepidation that Thor is going to be there in a swimsuit as well.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “We’ll be keeping it PG, Mr Parker, thank you.”

His face hot, Peter shakes his head hard, eyes wide. “No, I wasn’t—!”

“Mhm. Right.” Tony scrapes the excess mayonnaise from a piece of toast. “I don’t want to know.”

Peter blushes. “_Mr Stark._”

Tony places a gentle hand on his head, giving his hair a light ruffle. “Just messing with you, kid. So, Ned?”

“He’s going on vacation.”

“Pity.” Tony takes a seat, setting the plate of sandwiches between them, and slides an apple juice box toward him. “Anyway, do you need anything?” He looks Peter up and down, one eye scrunched up closed as if he were taking measurements. “Besides sunscreen.”

Grinning at Peter’s deadpan look, he continues, more seriously: “Towel, swimming trunks, flip flops—are you set with those?”

“Uh—” Peter has swimming trunks he hasn’t worn in a couple of years, but he thinks they must still fit him. 

“Might as well order some anyway.” Tony reaches for a sandwich and bites into it. “Everyone can do with an extra.”

“Um. I guess? But I’m not sure if—” Peter stretches the dinosaur until the material threatens to give. Mr Stark bought a whole pack of them, but Peter’s snapped two already and he doesn’t want to break this one, which is his favorite. “I… I don’t know—Are you sure about this, Mr Stark?”

“Which part, Pete?” 

“Just, you know… Me. At a party, with the Avengers,” Peter answers with an attempt at humor, wrapping the tail around a finger tightly.

Their last year of middle school Ned had cajoled him into attending the end of year pool party, and Peter had found it to be both too loud and too bright. He had also discovered that people were even harder for him to read when they were squinting from the sun and the water. It didn’t help that he didn’t know how to swim either. 

And while he had grown more comfortable with the team by now, all their interactions had been at the compound, in a familiar environment. He still doesn’t know them all that well. And now Tony is suggesting hanging out with them all day at his house in The Hamptons, which Peter has never visited before.

“Well. You, at the party, with the team, is kind of the point, Spider-baby.” Tony’s tone seems mild, and he’s smiling as he reaches over to open Peter’s juice. “I know it’s a lot, but it’ll be fun, I promise. I throw the best parties, you know?” he adds with a wink.

The indentation from the tail is still visible on his finger when Peter takes the juice with a weak smile, then traps the straw between his teeth to take a sip. “Should I bring something—any food, I mean?” he relents.

Munching on his sandwich, Tony scratches his chin. “I take it your aunt would be cooking?”

Peter bites back a grin. “Probably.”

Tony clears his throat dramatically. “Thankfully, this isn’t a potluck, so _please_ don’t bring anything.” 

Peter can’t contain a giggle, and feels himself relax a little when Tony breaks into a smile again and nudges the plate of sandwiches closer to him.

“Now eat.” His own sandwich finished, he wipes his hands on a napkin with a thoughtful hum. “What we _could_ do, is head out a day or two before, so you can settle in a bit before everyone else gets there. What do you think?”

Eyes going round in surprise, Peter finds himself smiling around the straw. He lets go of it impatiently. “That would be... cool, yeah.” Sometimes Peter doesn’t understand why Tony is so nice to him—even taking into account Spider-man, Peter knows he has to be a lot of work for a neighborhood superhero. His smile dims as he considers Tony intently with a small frown. “You really don’t mind, Mr Stark?” he asks uncertainly.

“An extra day at my luxurious mansion with my kid? I think I’ll survive.”

Peter ducks his head bashfully. And had Mr Stark just called Peter _his_ kid? 

Tony reaches out to gives his elbow a squeeze. “Any other questions or concerns, Mr Parker?” he asks.

Peter has learned by now that Tony doesn’t usually ask him questions he actually minds answering, but he also knows from experience he has enough questions and concerns to exhaust anyone. And he suspects one particular concern might end up shutting the whole thing down. So he lies. 

Shaking his head, he gives Mr Stark’s hand on his elbow a light pat—wincing when he feels himself stick for a second—before finally reaching for a sandwich. “No, all good, Mr Stark.”

“Why is my life _like_ this?” Ned moans when Peter tells him about the invitation from Tony. “Why does the universe hate me?”

Sitting cross legged, elbows resting on his knees with his chin propped up on one hand, Peter breathes out a chuckle as he watches his best friend’s antics. “Dude, you’re going to _Hawaii_.”

“But, but a pool party with the Avengers, Peter!” Ned’s face goes slack. “Black Widow in a bikini…” he adds dreamily. 

Peter shakes his head with an indulgent roll of his eyes, and reaches for another piece to fit onto their space shuttle LEGO model, but Ned knocks it out of his hand when he slaps him suddenly on the back. “Peter, dude—Thor! How are you going to survive?”

Grimacing, Peter flaps his hands at him. “I have bigger problems than that.”

“Really, what?” Ned asks in surprise.

“Ned, I can’t swim.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“But, you can just stay in the shallow part, it’s not a big deal.” 

“I don’t want Mr Stark and the Avengers to know,” Peter mutters, fidgeting with the LEGO piece. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m Spider-man, and I can’t swim? That’s embarrassing.”

“You can swing from buildings, dude.”

That makes him feel a little better, and one side of his mouth tilts in a grudging smile. “I guess.”

Ned flops onto his back with a noisy sigh. “Man, I’m so jealous.”

—

It turns out that hanging out at the Hamptons house with Mr Stark is the same as any other weekend with him at the compound. Even with no lab time, there is no chance to get bored, when there is a home cinema with what seems like unlimited access to movies and series, as well as a large collection of books and games. 

And even with nothing to do… Peter feels as comfortable with Mr Stark as he does with May and Ned. And he can talk to him about _anything_. With him Peter has discovered what it’s like to have conversations about science and technology without ever having to stop to explain himself or apologise. Tony is the only person with whom he can really discuss superhero stuff too—all the ups and downs of it. And Tony, like Uncle Ben used to before Skip, takes all of Peter in stride: he doesn’t even bat an eyelid when he catches Peter jumping on the bed before bedtime, or when he starts crying—despite it all a little overwhelmed at the new environment—because he forgot his toothbrush. He even has Peter’s staple favorite food and an assortment of stim toys delivered just for the three days.

The arrival of the Avengers almost feels like an intrusion, and Peter ends up hiding out in his room—listening to them catching up downstairs for a while, and then moving out to the pool—until Mr Stark comes to get him. Dressed in swimming trunks and a tank top, he pushes his sun glasses onto his head to talk to Peter.  
“Hey, kiddo, everyone’s here. Ready to rock and roll?” he asks, squinting up at Peter on the ceiling. 

Peter crawls down the wall slowly and straightens, blushing when he realises he’d left the weighted plushies on the bed instead of putting them back in the chest at the foot of the bed where he had found them. “Yeah, I’m ready, Mr Stark.”

Tony looks him up and down with narrowed eyes. “Did you put on sunscreen?”

“Uh.”

“Some words of wisdom, Underoos: lobster is not a good look on anyone. Come on.” Downstairs, he grabs a can of sunscreen from the dining table and makes a twirling motion with his hand at Peter. “I’m going to spray you. Brace yourself, June bug.”

Peter can’t help but giggle. “I’m feeling under attack.”

Laughing, Tony proceeds to spray him, evenly and carefully. It makes Peter feel like a ten year old, but he can’t help but smile up at Mr Stark when he finishes, a hand resting on the top of Peter's head and combing his curls back.

“You’ve got to do your face too,” he says, and hands him another smaller bottle of lotion, but not before squeezing some out to daub on Peter’s nose with a grin.

Peter wrinkles his nose even as he breathes out a chuckle, and quickly applies the sun block to his face and ears.

“Alright. Now that we know you’re not going to burn to a crisp,” Tony says, hands on his hips. “On to the second order of business: you’re not going to keel over when you see Nat, are you?” 

“Mr Stark!” The protest dies in his throat, however, when Thor wanders in from the kitchen, skin golden and still wet from the pool. Peter gulps, and blushes fiercely when Tony slaps his back with a guffaw. 

“This must be the young spider you talk about!” Thor approaches them with a wide, welcoming grin.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Peter. Parker. Peter Parker.” Peter cringes at how high his voice comes out, but Thor doesn’t seem phased, grasping his hand in an enthusiastic handshake. 

“Welcome, welcome. Here.” He hands Peter a beer, which he takes automatically.

“Ah, no.” Tony quickly plucks it from his hand. “He’s underage, He-man, no alcohol.”

Thor makes a face.  “Stark, this is weak beer! Of the sort we give our youngest children on Asgard. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Still no. There’s lemonade or soda for you, Spider-baby,” he tells Peter.

“Thanks, Mr Stark,” Peter replies, between grudging and grateful. He doesn’t want to come across as a total kid, but May had let him have a sip of her beer once, and he hadn’t liked the taste at all.

“As you wish.” Thor shrugs, and heads back out. Peter resolutely does not stare. “We will be battling soon and I would have you on my team, Stark-son!” he calls behind him.

“Yeah, that’d be amazing!” Peter squeaks, before he realises what Thor had called him.

Unsure how Tony might have taken it, he glances at him, but Tony only laughs, seemingly unperturbed. “Aren’t you glad you came, Pete?”

He sticks his tongue out with an inarticulate, disgusted noise when he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder to guide him out. “Ack. You’re still icky with lotion,” he cries, making Peter giggle. 

Peter walks out on to the back yard smiling.

He gets a bit of a shock a minute later, however: while he had been able to smell the chlorine from inside the house, he wasn’t expecting it to be quite so strong outside. Nose and eyes burning, he takes in the scene: Bruce stretched out in a lounge chair under a beach umbrella, perusing a magazine; Natasha sitting at the pool’s edge with her feet in the water; and Sam, Clint and Steve messing about in the pool. 

Tony thumps him on the back. “Alright, kid. This is your stop.”

“Aren’t you going in, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too nervous. The team all together still intimidate him.

“Someone’s gotta feed The Brady Bunch. I’m on barbecue duty,” Tony replies, pointing out the barbecue on the covered, raised deck. “I’ve got an apron and everything.”

Peter twists the strings of his swimming trunks around his fingers, eyes darting between the pool and Tony. “Do you need any help?”

Tony gives his shoulder a quick squeeze, smiling. “I’ll be fine, kid. And so will you, OK? Go have fun.”

Alone, Peter advances toward the pool cautiously—the sun glinting in the water is nearly blinding for him. Bruce gives him a lazy wave, and Natasha nods at him as he walks by. 

Sam boos when Peter starts going down the pool ladder.

“What is that? How old are you?” Clint jeers. Peter knows from his wide grin that he’s teasing, and he forces himself to laugh through his embarrassment. 

Jumping in doesn’t seem like the smartest idea when he can’t swim. The fact that his last time in a body of water had been after the Vulture had dropped him in a lake doesn't help either.

After Clint demonstrates the proper way to get in the pool—with a cannonball that manages to splash even Bruce—they set up a game of amateur water polo, which after a while devolves into playful roughhousing. 

Though Peter is quite a bit smaller than all of them, his enhanced strength makes him able to keep up. He still finds himself thrown around more than his fair share, however. But even when his feet can’t reach the floor, he is able to hold his head over water with relative ease, paddling and kicking clumsily.

After some time, however, the sun seems even brighter, and the smell and taste of chlorine stronger in his nose and throat. Peter starts feeling a little light headed, and cold, as well, despite the sun. He makes his way to the edge of the pool and sticks to it, shivering.

“Am I a joke to you?” Sam retorts when Steve challenges him to a race. It makes Peter giggle, despite his discomfort—until Sam turns to him contemplatively. “I want to see you go up against the alien god and the super kid, though, actually,” he tells Steve.

Feeling like he must be embodying the expression of a deer in headlights, Peter remains frozen in place as the others start discussing laps and how to determine the winner.  He can keep afloat and mess about, but it’s going to be obvious he can’t swim if he attempts to race. Looking for an out, he searches for Mr Stark, but he’s busy chatting to Bruce by the barbecue and doesn’t notice him. 

“You’re not scared, are you?” Sam crows, catching sight of him.

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not, it’s just—”

Clint splashes him, laughing. “Come on then.”

“It will be a noble race amongst friends!” Thor agrees. “I will be honored to beat you both.” 

“We’ll see about that. Right, Peter?” Steve calls.

“Are we doing this or not?” Natasha asks impatiently, her phone out ready to time the race. 

Peter looks from one to the other, his breath coming too fast. “I… I—” he stammers, feeling pressured and trapped. 

A lawnmower starts up with a roar in the house next door, and—Peter needs out.

He scrambles out of the pool, hoisting himself out with shaking arms, and with a rushed, stuttered apology, flees into the house on stilted legs. He thinks he hears the team calling after him, but he doesn’t stop.

Shivering, and his senses on overdrive, Peter goes straight up to his room on the second floor, wincing as he leaves wet footprints down the hall on the wood flooring. 

“Shit.”

His breathing starting to hitch with suppressed sobs, Peter slips into the walk-in closet in his room and curls up in a corner. 

Groaning, he tugs at his wet hair. His head hurts and his eyes are burning, and Mr Stark is going to kill him. Peter is never leaving this closet. He can’t believe he just did that. 

Things had been better with the Avengers after that first meeting, and now Peter had gone and done it again. He doesn’t understand why he can’t ever stop screwing up.

*

Tony follows the footprints on the floor up to Peter’s room. He pauses at the door, catching the whimpering and short, quiet gasps that he recognises as Peter trying to bring himself under control—then steps inside. 

He closes the blinds until the room is in a deep gloom, before cracking the closet door open. “Knock knock,” he says softly. 

The response comes after a beat, in a hushed, wobbly voice: "Hey, Mr Stark."

Tony opens the door a bit more, until he can see Peter huddled in the corner. “Nice little nook you’ve found for yourself, Spider-baby.” 

The shadow of a smile crosses Peter’s drawn face, before it crumples. “Mr Stark, I’m so sorry,” he cries hoarsely.

“Nuh, we’ve talked about this,” Tony says quickly, slipping inside. He makes a seat of a small step stool, the beach towel he had brought with him bunched up on his lap. “Want to tell me what happened?” 

Head bowed, Peter sniffles. “No.”

Tony gives him a gentle nudge in the ankle with his toe. “Will you, please?”

Peter’s eyes are red and still glistening when he peers up at Tony. “It just… got too… loud and bright. Started feeling sick.”

Tony allows himself a grimace. “That makes sense. I should have thought of that… probably should have included goggles on the list, hm? And ear plugs.” He scratches his beard, thinking out loud: “I could install an awning too. Climatize the pool, and—shit, maybe the chlorine levels are too high for you—”

“It’s not just that,” Peter admits in a small voice.

“Oh... what is it?” With some surprise, and not a small bit of concern, Tony moves to sit down on the floor closer to Peter, who takes a deep breath before answering in a rush: “I can’t swim.”

The probabilities of drowning in a pool full of superheroes seem small, but the thought still makes Tony’s stomach clench. He had just assumed, when he maybe should have asked. “That would have fit nicely under other questions or concerns, Pete.”

Any further reprimand is halted when Peter bites the inside of his cheek in an obvious attempt to stop the telltale quivering of his jaw. Tony sighs and shifts closer, longing to comfort. His fear and anxiety have got the better of him before, but this wasn’t a life or death situation, and all he wants to do in this moment is put a stop to the tears. 

“Kid. Swimming is a useful skill to have, but it’s not the end of the world.”

“But I’m Spider-man,” he counters like that explains everything. 

“Do spiders swim?” Tony quips. “I didn’t think that was a thing.”

“Some do,” Peter answers earnestly.

“And some don’t. And you’re not a spider, anyway. You’re a real boy,” he teases, and is gratified when the left corner of Peter’s mouth lifts minutely. 

“But I’m a superhero—” he insists, nonetheless. 

“Swimming’s not one of the requisites to be a superhero, I’ve checked,” Tony interrupts, with a grin to make sure Peter knows he’s joking. 

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Peter offers him a wan smile in response. He looks pale, still damp and shivering. And Tony just wants to make it all better. “Would you like to learn to swim? That can be arranged, easily.”

Gaze fixed on his bare feet, Peter bites at his thumb nail in silence for a minute. “May signed me up for lessons when I was ten, but I-I couldn’t—I didn’t want the instructor touching me,” he whispers finally.

Tony’s chest literally aches at that, and he rubs a hand over his tank top as he frantically considers a solution for that. “Maybe it’s time to get DUM-E a little sister… she could help you out?” 

Peter stares at him for a moment, before shaking his head with a small, rueful smile. “Mr Stark?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Can I… can I just have a hug, please?”

Tony’s throat feels a little tight all of a sudden. “Of course, Spider-baby. As many as you want,” he breathes, pulling him into a tight hug. “Within reason,” he amends, with a light, playful pinch to his side. Peter gives a weak giggle into his chest before his body is wracked by a violent shiver. 

“Jesus, kid.” Tony says rubs his arms, which are covered in goose pimples. “You’re freezing cold.”

“I _am_ at least a _little_ bit part spider,” Peter says jokingly, surprising a laugh out of Tony. 

“Alright, baby spider, come here.” He pulls back from the embrace in order to bundle Peter up tight in the beach towel he had brought with him, before wrapping his arms around him again. “There has to be something that can be done about this thermoregulation issue…” he muses.

Resting his head on Tony’s chest with a sigh, Peter doesn’t answer.

Tony instinctively cups a hand over his uncovered ear when he hears the distant sound of the lawnmower start up again.

He never could have imagined this would end up being his life: throwing a pool party for a band of superheroes, with a teenage kid to look after. Even after taking up responsibility with Iron Man, nothing has ever seemed quite so precious as the boy in his arms. 

All of a sudden, Peter lifts his head up in alarm. “Mr Stark, the meat’s going to burn!” he exclaims.

Tony can’t resist pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he pulls it back onto his shoulder. “You’re something else, kid. I left Steve in charge—even passed on the apron. And if Captain America can’t man a barbecue, what are we coming to?”

Giggling, Peter snuggles closer, and melts completely when Tony starts stroking his hair. 

Tony holds him until he stops shivering, and then a while longer—until Peter’s stomach rumbles loudly. “Hungry?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Peter admits, sitting back on his knees with a sheepish grin. Still wrapped up in the towel, and with his hair a mop of curls, he looks years younger. Tony doesn’t know how anyone could ever say no to Peter when he was littl_er_—he would have spoiled him rotten. 

“Good, I was counting on a Spider-baby appetite,” he says, and Peter lowers his head bashfully, but smiles. “You up to going out again, or do you want to move the party to the kitchen, or even the bedroom? Whatever. It’s all fine, Pete.” 

Peter’s expression sobers slightly. “It’s a _pool_ party.”

“Right.” Tony holds back a smile. “But we already got the pool part out of the way, if that’s the issue.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m OK to go out again. Honestly, Mr Stark,” he adds when Tony considers him carefully. He ducks his head again, clutching the towel up under his chin with both hands. “This… this really helped.”

His chest feeling a bit tight with emotion, Tony brings him in again for one more quick hug. “I’m glad, kid.” 

As he looks for a pair of his own sunglasses for Peter to wear, he can’t help but think about Howard: how he had been with Tony—what he had done to him... what he would have done to a boy like Peter. Tony fervently hopes he will never even come close to being anything like his father.

He returns to Peter's bedroom with sunglasses in hand, and a funny feeling in his chest as he takes in Peter from the door for a moment: sprawled on the bed, after changing into a tee shirt and shorts, weighted plush cradled in the crook of his arm, petting the penguin distractedly as he waits for Tony to come back. _His kid. _ The strange sensation in his chest intensifies when Peter slips on the shades, clumsily pushing them up his nose.

“Do they look stupid?” Peter asks nervously, blinking owlishly behind the tinted glasses, which are a tad too big for his small face.

In a bit of a daze, Tony shakes his head. “No, kid, they look great,” he says honestly.

Peter beams, and the feeling in Tony’s chest is almost painful in its intensity. He grins back, and hooks an arm around his neck. “Alright, Spider-baby, come on. Let’s get some food in you.”

They all move into the shade for lunch, and Peter settles in to eat with good appetite. Tony notices he keeps his distance from the team, though, shy to respond to any attempts at conversation, and clinging to him at every possible chance. Until Bruce happens to mention off hand he can’t swim, and, smartly drawing him into a conversation about biochemistry, gets him to relax. 

Bruce gives him a discreet wink when Tony catches his eye. And Tony becomes aware of the tension he had been carrying himself as some of it eases. It melts away further when the chemistry talk turns into a discussion about physics that leads to Thor joining in too, and soon Peter is bouncing in his seat, animated and engaged, a bright smile on his face. At one point he ends up talking about movies with Natasha and Steve, and Sam is left speechless with amazement when he discovers Peter's stickiness, which he apparently hadn't believed wasn't related to the suit. 

Tony feels... content. And Clint teasingly congratulating him on officially being a dad before he leaves just fills him with a heady hopefulness and secret pride. 

“Yeah, May, I had fun.” Tony overhears Peter on the phone, later that night, as he makes his way down the hall. “It was good… I’m good. Really good.”

Tony is starting to think the warm, overwhelming feeling he gets in his chest with Peter might just be here to stay. 

He's good with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> I went to see SFFH for the third time, and, honestly, I just _can't_ not see Tom Holland's Peter Parker as autistic.__
> 
> _  
_This fic touches on sensory issues too, but I did want to write some more about the social skills and communication issues._  
_
> 
> _  
_Remember autism is a spectrum._  
_
> 
> _  
_Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated!_  
_


End file.
